


Dark Magic, Dark Marks

by garbage_dono



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower, Ferdibert Week (Fire Emblem), M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Time Skip, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbage_dono/pseuds/garbage_dono
Summary: The scars of one's soulmate appearing on their skin is one thing during peacetime. It's entirely another during a bloody war.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 528
Collections: Ferdibert Ship Week 2019





	Dark Magic, Dark Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Combining 2 prompts for Ferdibert Week Day 4: Soulmates and Scars

Ferdinand is working in the stables when he first notices his fingers have turned black.

At first he thinks it's a trick of the light, a stray shadow falling over his hands and making the skin look almost unnaturally dark. Then he wonders if he dragged his fingers through a spot of ash while lighting his torch without realizing it. But the dark splotches creeping spiderlike up to his knuckles don't lift when he rubs his fingers together and don't dance across his palms when he moves the way his silhouette does on the hay as he steps into the light.

No, this is a dark stain on the pads of his fingers. Ink, perhaps? Though he hasn't touched a quill since this morning and surely he would have noticed.

Shaking his head, he replaces his gloves and gets to work locking up the stable for the night, giving Chamomile a good pat on the flank as he does. She snorts against his hair, as he takes his leave. By the time he get to his room again and removes his gloves to get a closer look, the stains are gone, leaving nothing behind on his skin except for his thick callouses and one chipped nail.

A trick of the light then after all.

* * *

Hubert first catches a glimpse of it while changing his gloves early in the morning, halfway out the door to attend the day's war council meeting. He almost doesn't notice it at all, it's so inconsequential, but from the moment he sees it, he can't ignore it if he tries.

A tiny scar, barely the length of his fingernail, curving around one knuckle like a crescent moon.

He squints at it, puzzled. He has plenty of scars and marks marring his skin, surely – nicks from his knives or tendrils of dark magic that have crept up through his skin like putrid ink. He pays them no mind. He has better things to occupy his mind with than whether or not his body is pleasing to the eye.

But this…this scar. He cannot look away from it, because he cannot remember ever getting it at all.

It's not large, and certainly not from an injury that was deep. But it looks _old._ So old that the puckered flesh has faded and flattened. And yet he doesn't recall it ever being fresh. It's a scar of an injury he never received, a reminder of pain he never endured.

He huffs and pulls on his gloves to cover it and all of its mates littering his skin, and strides down the hall, never one to keep Her Majesty waiting for something so trivial.

Lady Edelgard is already deep in conversation with their professor when he arrives, her brow knit and her fingers resting against her chin, deep in thought. The moment she spots him, she ushers him over. "Hubert – perfect timing. I need your opinion on this."

The movement of the front has compromised one of their largest supply lines. Hardly surprising, but concerning none the less. "Our rations are wearing thin as it is," Lady Edelgard sighs. "Any more and we risk a steep decrease in morale."

"Not to mention that starved soldiers are rarely effective in battle," Hubert adds, already bowing over the map spread on the table. The problem is a simple one to fix, in theory at the very least. In practice, it will take time, resources, and effort that they would ideally prefer to conserve. But such is the nature of war. "There," he says, pressing his finger against the paper. "If we cut a new path through this region here, we should be able to restore the supply lines quickly without risking retaliation by the Kingdom forces…"

His eyes move from the map to his own hand, to his knuckles protruding under the fabric of his glove. He can still picture it, that mysterious scar marring his magic-stained skin there. He flexes his hand, trying to see if he can somehow _feel_ it against the leather, but of course the brush of familiar material against his skin feels the same as ever.

"Is something wrong?" Byleth asks him, a furrow in their brow that matches Lady Edelgard's.

"Nothing," he insists. Foolish of him, letting such trivial thoughts get in the way of strategic planning. He cannot afford such luxuries. _They_ cannot afford him letting his mind wander wherever it pleases.

Lady Edelgard, thankfully, doesn't pry. He isn't sure whether it's because she believes him, or because she _doesn't_ but knows him better than to think he'll offer anything more. Frankly, he doesn't care which is true, though he does have his suspicions. "We should send a unit to secure the new supply route immediately," she says instead. "Perhaps Petra could lead a small battalion to take it. Her stealth will serve us well here…"

For the rest of the meeting, Hubert puts the blasted scar from his mind. He ignores the way the leather seems to tingle against his skin whenever he thinks of the crescent curled around his knuckle. As he steps out onto the bridge heading for the market, he spares a glance down at his hand again. Pulls back the leather, stares down at the back of his hand.

Stops halfway across the bridge.

His hands are still stained from years of magic. There are still marks from where blades have kissed his skin, both accidentally and in pursuit a convenient drop or two of blood for a spell. And yet there, by his knuckle, the crescent-moon scar is nowhere to be seen.

It's vanished, as if it had never been there at all.

Hubert shakes his head, mutters a curse, and continues on his way.

* * *

"You _broke his jaw?_ " Caspar cries, gaping at Ferdinand with eyes wide. "Seriously? You?"

"I did not _break_ it," Ferdinand groans. "At least I am relatively certain of that…I may not have your prowess with gauntlets, but it is important for anyone to be able to fight even when disarmed."

"Somehow I can't picture you throwing a good punch." Caspar leans against the stable door. "No offense or anything – I mean, when you get a lance in your hands you're pretty terrifying, actually."

"He means that as a compliment," Linhardt pipes up from inside, sprawled back against a bale of hay.

Ferdinand does his best to take it as one, although the thought of anyone finding him _terrifying_ makes something unpleasant twist in his gut. Such is the nature of war, he supposes. "I have the scar to prove it," he says instead, calling a smile to his face as he removes his glove. Caspar eagerly rushes forward to look. "Just there, by the knuckle, where my fist caught the bandit's helmet."

"Damn…you weren't kidding." He grins. "Look at you, throwing punches and breaking faces! I didn't know you had it in you, mister high-and-mighty noble."

"He means that as a compliment too," Linhardt says, his open book resting across his face now. It barely covers the edge of a scar running along the side of his jaw – matching the same one that's still pink and puckered on Caspar's face.

Caspar's had been from the edge of an enemy sword. Linhardt's hadn't appeared until a few days after the battle, while he'd been sitting in the infirmary clutching Caspar's hands and chiding him for getting himself into such trouble in the first place.

Ferdinand looks down at his hands again, thinking of that trick of the light that stained his fingers as black as ink. He had seen something so similar only once before, when he had caught Hubert exiting the sauna before Hubert had had a chance to replace his gloves.

"Dark magic leaves dark marks," he'd said before brushing past Ferdinand without a second glance. Answering a question that Ferdinand had never dared to ask.

Ferdinand simply shrugs and pulls his own glove back one once again.

* * *

They're due to march in two days, and Hubert finds coffee more helpful than fruitlessly to get any restful sleep. With the full strength of the Kingdom army awaiting them, including Dimitri himself, he doesn't doubt that it will be a hard battle. But they will win. They must. Otherwise, everything will be…

What? Meaningless? All of their planning and fighting and suffering, all of Lady Edelgard's pain, all of the nauseating years gritting their teeth and letting those twisted slithering beasts think they have them under control…Would it all truly mean nothing.

He sighs, rubs his temple, and downs a good half of his cup without even savoring it. Pity.

"You're brewing the coffee I gave you," comes a voice from the doorway, and Hubert turns to spot him standing there – red hair haphazardly tied up, sleeping clothes hanging off his shoulders, bare hands resting against the door frame.

Hubert offers a humorless laugh as he brings the cup to his lips again. "Did you expect me to let it go to waste?"

"Certainly not," Ferdinand says. "I suppose I'm just…surprised that it is to your liking."

Hubert raises a brow, steam kissing his cheeks as he holds the cup just a hair's breadth away from his mouth. "Surprised? Did you think I would…what, abhor it?"

"Considering that it was a gift from _me_ , I was not ready to discount the possibility."

"Well put your mind at ease. I find it quite palatable, thank you very much." Wordlessly, Hubert turns to the nearest shelf, opening the cabinets to survey the endless jars of tea stored there. "I could boil more water if you want a cup of…what was it now…ah, the southern fruit blend? Sickeningly sweet stuff."

Ferdinand sighs, sinking into a chair by the table nearest to the door. He's slouched in a way that's almost out of character for him, not puffing out his chest and straightening his shoulders in an effort to look so very _noble_ and gallant as usual. In fact, it makes him look almost…small. Drained.

"Actually," Ferdinand says, "If you could spare it, I might actually prefer coffee."

Instead of prying, Hubert pours him a cup. He sets it in front of him and sits opposite him at the table, watching as Ferdinand takes a sip and curls his lip at the bitterness. "Subjecting yourself to such torture now?" he asks. "I almost respect you for that."

"I could not sleep," Ferdinand admits, as if that wasn't obvious.

"That won't help."

A joyless smile stretches Ferdinand's lips, and the sight of it makes Hubert's stomach sink. There's something about it that drains the light from Ferdinand's eyes, and as much as that damn stubborn spark irks Hubert to no end, seeing it fade is…unsettling. "I suppose," Ferdinand sighs, "It's more accurate to say I would rather _not_ sleep."

Hubert wishes he didn't understand that feeling well. He does. Flames, he does. He brings his own cup to his lips again. "If you march into battle sleep deprived and exhausted, you'll get yourself killed much too quickly to be of any use at all."

"I will sleep before the battle. Eventually. Just…not tonight."

Some demon weighing on his mind, Hubert wonders? Night terrors? Ghosts of his loved ones? Ghosts of his enemies? Any of them can chase sleep away in no time at all.

And then Hubert spots it, nestled next to Ferdinand's knuckle as he curls his fingers around the cup. A crescent- moon scar, so small that Hubert had never noticed it before. And yet so familiar.

His heart _lurches_ in his chest, like it's skipped over a beat and struggling to regain its rhythm.

"Do not think me unwilling to do what needs to be done to end this war," Ferdinand sighs, seemingly completely unaware of the storm raging behind Hubert's ribs. "But I am…I am _tired,_ Hubert. Aren't you tired of all of this?"

Hubert swallows, simply raises his cup and tilts it toward Ferdinand before taking another healthy sip. Tired…as if he has time to be tired. Perhaps that's a blessing. After he finally sets his cup down again, staring down at it. "We started this war," he says instead of answering Ferdinand's question. "And if we fail, history will no doubt think of us as villains. The power-hungry emperor who sought to seize power for herself. Her scheming retainer who committed unspeakable acts in her name. The _ashen demon_ who fought by her side. And the despicable Black Eagles, who followed her into hell." He meets Ferdinand's eye. "No doubt there will be plenty who think the same even if we succeed."

"Surely it is not that simple," Ferdinand says, though it's obvious he's not so naïve as to think Hubert is wrong.

"Is that not what's keeping you awake? The thought that you will die in battle and be remembered as nothing but a _villain?_ "

Ferdinand's grip tightens on his cup. "I suppose that sort of thing doesn't keep you from sleeping?"

"I came to terms with people thinking me a villain long before this war began."

"But you are _not_ a villain," Ferdinand insists. "Nor am I. Nor is Edelgard. Perhaps there are no villains at all…simply…simply people doing what they believe is right." He sighs, the air rushing out of him leaving him deflated, heavy. "I suppose _that_ is what keeps me from sleeping. Not thinking that others will see me as a villain, but…thinking that I will begin to see villains where there are none."

Hubert's eyes narrow. "Rest assured, there are plenty of villains in this world, but I doubt we will come across any of them in battle anytime soon."

The next thing he knows, there's a warm pressure over his hand, and he looks down and finds Ferdinand's fingers curled tightly around his own, that crescent scar standing out like a silhouette against the white backdrop of his knuckles. "Hubert," he says, voice strained. "I must ask you…not to die before this war ends. Do not…do not allow history to paint you as a villain. You do not deserve it, and I…I do not think I could handle seeing such a cruel portrait made of you."

Hubert has forgotten the last dregs of his coffee still sitting untouched in his cup, forgotten the still-steaming portion in front of Ferdinand, forgotten even that scar curled around Ferdinand's knuckle. His mouth his dry, the buzzing in his chest rising to a great crescendo as he stares at Ferdinand's eyes. They're alight again, blazing with _desperation._ Or perhaps more than that alone.

Slipping his hand out from beneath Ferdinand's, Hubert gets to his feet. "I can hardly control what kind of portrait history decides to paint of me, and frankly I don't care what it chooses. But…I have no plans to die in this battle. Or any other, before the war is done."

After he leaves, Hubert stops outside, back against the stone before he pulls off his gloves. His heart races as he turns his hand over and stares down at his knuckles. There, nestled among the snake-like tendrils of dark stains on his skin, is the crescent-moon scar.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, makes it all the way to his room before he hazards a glance down at his own hands, eyes tracing along the inky black marks stretching up over his fingers, palms and knuckles.

"Oh," they both breathe, blissfully unaware that the other is doing just the same, " _Fuck._ "

* * *

The battle rages, loud and chaotic, the clash of swords and the hiss of arrows cutting through the air reverberating in Ferdinand's ears until he can barely think. But he doesn't need to think. Not now. Not when he must _act_ on instinct and training to keep himself alive until they make it to the end of this hell.

He plunges his lance into the chest of a faceless soldier coming at him with sword drawn. It's still glistening, bloody as he turns it on a mage readying a fire spell. He's too late to stop it before it comes blazing toward him, and the same moment his weapon ends the mage's life, heat sears his arm and shoulder and makes him stumble backwards.

The pain lasts only for a moment before it's replaced by the cool tingling of a physic spell, and Ferdinand turns and locks eyes with Linhardt, who isn't even looking at him. He has one hand raised in Ferdinand's direction, shining with magic, and the other held out in front of him, readying a cutting gale to take down an incoming wyvern.

He doesn't get a chance to loose his spell before Caspar brings his axe down on the rider's head, removing the threat in one bloody second.

Ferdinand turns, catches a glimpse of Shamir and Bernadetta back to back, firing arrows as quickly as they're able to nock them in their bows. Dorothea with her hands pressed against a bleeding – not fatal – wound on Petra's shoulder. Edelgard with Aymr lifted overhead as her own wyvern rears. And Hubert-

Hubert being thrown from his armored steed into the mud, a sword pulled back to deal the killing blow. There's miasma blazing in his hands, but it won't be enough – Ferdinand already knows that much as the world blurs around him, his lance pulling back like it has a mind of its own, slipping from his fingertips.

It hits the nameless sword wielder between the ribs, sends them toppling over.

"Ferdinand," Hubert pants as he struggles his way to his feet. "You madman-"

"Are you alright?"

"That was _reckless-_ "

" _Are you alright?_ "

Ferdinand's heart is in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears, and Hubert bites back a curse. "Yes," he finally says. "Yes, I-"

The arrow that strikes Ferdinand in the back comes from a sniper he doesn't even see. Before Ferdinand has hit the ground, Hubert has launched a mire spell in counter-attack, no doubt enveloping the enemy in darkness a second later.

"You _idiot,_ " Hubert hisses as he kneels beside Ferdinand in the mud. "Hopeless man – die here and I'll end you."

Ferdinand doesn't _feel_ like he's doing, though he wonders if he would if he was. There's pain. Oh, there's a fair amount of pain working its way from his right shoulder blade. But he's felt worse before and he hasn't died yet. But as Hubert inspects the arrow sticking out from his armor, Ferdinand catches something – a glimpse of inky blackness through the tears in Hubert's shredded gloves.

He grabs Hubert's hand tightly, and Hubert grunts, "What on earth are you-"

Ferdinand doesn't hesitate before ripping his own glove off with his teeth, lifting it to the sky so that Hubert can see it the same moment he does: black tendrils creeping up along his fingers and wrist. The scars of dark magic despite Ferdinand never conjuring a single spell himself.

He recalls Linhardt leaning in to press a kiss to the fresh scar on Caspar's jaw after kissing his lips, pulling away with a perfect match of it on his own face.

"If you die here," Hubert says, voice strained, "I truly will _end_ you."

It's a ludicrous threat, but Ferdinand takes it to heart.

* * *

Hubert stares at himself in the mirror, shirt hanging off of his arms, craning his neck to get a better look at the scar next to his shoulder blade. It's painfully obvious, pink and puckered flesh standing out against his own pale skin. So much more unsightly than the same one on Ferdinand's back.

He doesn't care much. His own body is marred with enough marks that one more barely matters. But it does make something _unpleasant_ twist in his gut whenever he sees Ferdinand's calloused hands stained black by magic he never conjured himself. Like he's paid a price for something he never wanted or got.

Those hands rest on Hubert's hips a moment later, fiery eyes meeting his in the mirror. "It is a very odd thing, don't you agree?" he asks, and Hubert raises a brow at his reflection. "I'm starting to forget which of these scars are yours and which are mine."

"I can tell," Hubert counters with a smirk. "I know for a fact that I wasn't crazy enough to be struck in the back by an arrow while saving a dastardly villain." He turns to face Ferdinand – his real face looks just the same as the reflection, but unlike the face in the mirror, Hubert can feel warm breath from Ferdinand's lips as he speaks.

"Please, Hubert – for the last time, you are not a villain."

"I'm certainly no hero."

"Do you think I am?" Ferdinand asks, thumbs stroking along his hip bones. "I certainly do not feel like one…adding so many new scars to your skin."

"Scars are just a price." Hubert presses his hand against Ferdinand's jaw. "Everything has a price, my dear. Peace, justice, happiness…none of it is free." Ferdinand closes his eyes, leaning into the touch of Hubert's blackened, scarred hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "I think I'm willing to pay this price for you."


End file.
